And if I'm only dreaming
by ikeablanket
Summary: Why won't you let me forget you? Looking at the breakdown of relationships and the power of memory, but with a hopefully optimistic ending, inspired by the fabulous Noisettes song "Every now and then." Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter fandom or any characters/themes within it, or the song "Every now and then". I make no profit from writing this story.


And if I'm only dreaming…

**Every now and then  
I get a feeling,  
Like I've left something behind me,  
But I don't know what it is yet…**

_Unstable feet. Hands grasping, scrambling for something, anything. Half blind, half feeling. Where am I? The sky, a massing wave of grey splattered every so often with electric pulses of crimson and blood orange. Noise, unfathomable noise distorting everything. And then it stops. Too quickly, too suddenly the silence comes and penetrates through the grey. My stomach churns. This is it. I know what is going to happen as well as I know myself. _

_I see you. The tips of your fingers lingering through the mist. Falling away...away from me. A swirl of black hair...the veil..._

_I reach out to grab that hand – that sweet, ivory hand – but every time, every time...something makes me turn around, something inside pulls me backward and forces me to look away...what is it? This pull, as strong as the lure of the full pure moon above me. I try to hold on. I try to keep reaching...but I can't. I'm sorry, I'm...I'm just not strong enough. I turn away._

_I hang there for an eternity, waiting for something unspoken, something unknown...forgetting what I was doing. A secondary pause that somehow lasts minutes and hours as I drift in the sleepless void._

_When I finally remember (and I always remember, always, always, I promise you)... I look back..._

_And you are gone.  
_

* * *

This night, just like every other night since you left, I wake up covered in cold sweat with a humiliating, soul crushing stinging in my eyes. For a moment or two, I feel as though I am rushing back up to the surface after plunging into ice cold water or perhaps waking from some twisted hibernation. The sick, cruel night has tricked me once again, thrusting me into this unwanted, unwelcome present...into the pain. I struggle to comprehend what has happened and grab desperately at the damp sheets for your hand. But it is only for a second. And then I remember.

And then I remember.

_Why won't you let me forget?_

When the familiar restricted pain finally stops squeezing my heart dry (as though there is anything bloody left to take), I take a large, deep breath and try and think.

The room is the same. The bed is the same. Nothing has changed. I double check. (I must always double check...)

No, nothing has changed.

She still sleeps beside me in resigned oblivion, snoring with a low contented burr. Her skin is smooth like a porcelain doll but a dab of drool clings to her relaxed bottom lip. She has long since adjusted to this nightly routine and nowadays, she is kind enough to leave me alone with this fleeting, agonising moment. At first she didn't understand and would try and wake me when she felt the darkness approaching. She wondered how anybody could want to be left in a horrible nightmare and not return to the warm arms of a lover and sweet, warm sanity. But how could she possibly understand? My memories, though fraught with pain and misery, are memories nevertheless. My only chance to try and recapture you, a fading sound on the wind, no matter how much it hurts.

But I never tell her this. I just disappoint her, as I probably always do.

The banal ticking of the clock slows my heart. She snores on. The baby gurgles and murmurs in his sleep, stubby pink fingers clasped around the edge of a much-loved blanket. A blackbird hits a mistaken note or two under the waning moon and then resumes his sleep, safe from the world under the downy feathers of his wing. I stay awake and stare at the ceiling. Only a few days until my next transformation and already I feel the stirring, the grinding reality that once more I'll slip away from myself. They were so much easier with you around, you know.

I try and remember how the back of your neck smelt...I crumble inside when I can't.

* * *

**Kissing in your room,  
Climbing out the window,  
Trying not to make a sound, but  
With my first love on my mind**

"You're never going to pass anything if you don't revise, you know"

You grunt and kick a pillow off of the bed in frustration, rolling face down onto the sheets. Always kicking, always restless – limbs too long for your body, unsteady in your balance and yet somehow light footed, poised. Several sheets of parchment flutter to the floor like confetti. I watch with a frown as you try and manipulate the sheets between your long, bendy toes. You always seem to have bare feet.

"Oh Moony you are so full of tosh, I'll be fine – anyway, I haven't got time for that..."

I try hard not to sound too edgy, too defensive, too interested: "Why not?"

"I'm meeting someone _of course_! I told you, didn't I?" A smile splits across your face like the breaking moon and I try and ignore the jealous, angry pangs that seem to come alive in my soul. I'm not jealous of the girl really. I'm not even jealous of the fact that he seems to have a way with girls that I am unable to master. Just jealous of the idea of intimacy and distractions.

"Oh...haha...oh yes, I forgot...good, good...sounds dead good" I don't sound very convincing. You look at me bemused for a moment and then bark out a laugh. You don't mean to be cruel.

"I'll see you later pal, enjoy the books!" And then you strut out, jumping up to slap the top of the door frame and chanting out some ridiculous Quidditch chant as you go.

* * *

Is that really how it happened? I can't remember anymore. There seemed to be many occasions like this. You leave...I stay behind. This same act but played out in many different scenarios. The only certainty, the only moment I feel I can ever be sure of is the inevitability that I will be left behind. Some of the memories blend into one nowadays, Pads. Time, age, distance...loss...you see, it all adds up eventually. Begins to blur the edges, begins to tug at the things we thought we knew, we thought we understood.

The uncertainty makes me anxious. Maybe this isn't how it happened...

But your feet were bare. I_ know_ this is true. I hold onto it. Your feet were bare.

* * *

"Remus?"

_The sky was grey..._

"Remus? Hello?"

_The smell of winter clinging to the wind. The sweet promise of Christmas, kissing the senses._

"Did you hear me?"

_The rustle of leaves...your voice seems to sing in my ear._

"Remus I'm talking to you..."

_A pliable leather jacket hanging over the end of the bed. Your sleek calf muscle under a white sheet._

"Remus!"

"What! What I'm sorry, I was...just... I'm sorry dear...did you say something?"

She gazes at me with a sorrowful, strained smile. With reluctance, she has gradually resigned herself to the knowledge that she will only ever see a sketchy outline of my soul. I try and fill in the parts that she craves and this suffices. The remainders are left to her imagination. I wish I could feel_ enough_ to feel the amount of guilt I should really feel, but honest-to-Merlin, feelings are few and far between for me.

"I just wondered if you wanted a cup of tea?" she says softly. She looks very tired. Her hair is long and plain today. I walk over to her and put my arms around her. I feel her suddenly damp cheek through the shoulder of my jumper and feel like a prize bastard for doing this to her. I hope she knows how much she means to me.

"Sometimes you have to stay together, no matter what" I say "Sometimes, all that matters is having somebody to depend on." She nods resolutely into my shoulder, wiping her eyes against my collar bones and proffering up a smile through her tears. Somebody to love, yes, even if it isn't..._that_ kind of love.

Then we go into the other room and I make the biggest, most enthusiastic fuss over the baby I can possibly muster. My wife's lovely eyes light up and she indulges in the fantasy, shakes off the pressure of the cracks in our relationship and dives into this moment of picture-perfect bliss. Mummy, Daddy and little baby bunting. The house is filled with laughing and giggling and affection. I almost feel your fingers relinquish their grip on me. I live. I breathe steady. I smile. I pray you aren't angry with me anymore.

* * *

You see, we were never through  
I never said I loved you  
Even when we said goodbye  
I never thought it was the last time…

The massing grey. The sudden silence, no, no, it always comes too quickly...

_The tips of your fingers lingering through the mist. A swirl of black hair...I reach out and..._

_Too late. Again, again. I'm too late.  
_

* * *

"I can't believe you _have_ these!" She snorts as a blush of pink dabbles on her cheek and temple, "Aren't they...kind of..._girly_?"

The incriminating items in question are a series of prints of the love letters exchanged between Napoleon Bonaparte and his Josephine, an old muggle book with each letter printed individually and now (they are so well read, well loved, well mourned) they are falling loose from the spine.

"No...well, I mean, a little perhaps...but they're..." She doesn't wait for my anaemic answer but merely shakes her head, chuckles, and replaces them.

You never thought they were...girly. Not when I read them to you for the first time with my voice cracking like ice with fear and anxiety. Not when I confessed they moved me and hoped nervously that you wouldn't laugh and that maybe they would move you too. Not when you stroked the back of my neck and asked me to say the words again, over and over again.

_"I awake all filled with you. Your image and the intoxicating pleasures of last night, allow my senses no rest."_

Not when I even thought the words might have been my own...

"_Till then, a thousand kisses, mio dolce amor! but give me none back for they set my blood on fire."_

* * *

"You...you. ..y...are just..._sho_ drunk!" you roar. Your black mane is lashing everywhere and bits of hair hang in front of your red, squinting eyes as you roll in your chair, sloshing firewhisky liberally from your glass with tears slithering down your cheeks. You bang one hand on the table and I find myself unable to stop laughing too.

This night, this night above all others...it is a rare moment of relaxation, of peace. By the resinous glow of the fire we open up together and for once, I dare to creep outside of myself. We laugh and laugh as the snows falls in thick, innocent sheets outside. How did we ever find the strength to do this? How did we ever shake off our realities long enough to indulge in moments of happiness? How did we ever shut out the world to unfurl like frosted flowers in front of those flames?

The pub is alive with the crackle of the logs as they split under the caress of the flames. The constant chinking and clanking of glasses, bottles and tankards stirs in my mind even now. I deliriously focus in one moment on every word you say and the next I allow myself to drown in that murmur of mirth that only ever accompanies Christmas time. A riot of holly and ivy and assorted glinting greenery takes over every conceivable surface. I howl even harder when you manage to get your old scarf tangled up on the sprigs of holly. You swear and slur profusely as you unhook yourself. I always remember that you had a fiery temper (and a mouth to match it), when the mood took you. I hear the chimes of giggles behind me and realise I'm not the only person enjoying this little skit. Three heads of glossy luxurious hair bob and titter as you catch sight of them and shoot them a trademark wink. I try to laugh along, pushing down that bitter bile – none of them look at me. I don't mind so much.

"C'mon then Moons, ol'buddyol'pal" you slur (American film star style – once you discover muggle films you think this is a hilarious thing to do) as you settle yourself down, "What happened with this one...err...whatshername?"

"Catrin?"

"Yeahh, yes, that's the one...what was it this time, too fat? Too thin? Small knockers? Webbed feet? Arse cheeks like bludgers?" I roll my eyes but I can't help but laugh.

"Oh, why do you want to know you chauvinist bugger? Don't you have enough of your own stories about women?" I avoid his eyes. I don't think that I sound as light hearted as I hope I do.

"Yesss of course, of course since I am _such a stud_ and everything – just wondering about you dear old chum, that's all!"

I hesitate "She just..."

"She just...?" The blood rushes to my face. Even though you can't focus on me, your eyes sparkle. My heart jolts. I push the feeling away. The booze is having a bad effect on me. And then...I try and say it in the most nonchalant fashion imaginable, but it comes out like ground glass:

"I just...I _just_...don't really...don't really like _birds_ that much, to be perfectly honest..."

There is silence. You look astonished. You say nothing. You stare beyond me. I begin to wither, furious with this stupid, thoughtless slip. I begin to climb back inside myself. Then with a quiet compassion that I didn't truly believe you were capable of, you simply replied;

"Alright then." With a small, considerate smile.

* * *

Lying in the grass in the dusk with a girl called Sarah in the final year of Hogwarts. It is summer and dandelion flowers drift on the breeze. Mauve and peach dipped clouds taint the horizon. We hold hands and her brown hair fans out over the grass. She started talking to me one day in potions and I thought she was nice and clever. When she looks at you, it's like she is looking right into your soul. And she sees everything.

Her voice is unexpected and sweet. She always seems to speak the truth. For a while, we talk about what we want to be. She tells me that she doesn't want a job to do with magic; she just wants to paint and write sometimes. I think that maybe I'd like to just read and write sometimes too...maybe we could do that together. It seems...nice. Friendly. We also talk about dreams.

"This isn't what you dream of isn't it?"

I say nothing. I feel her smile.

"I know it isn't, because it isn't what I dream of either...but sometimes it's important to make connections, to hold onto something, do you know what I mean?"

I do. Or I think I do. I still say nothing.

"It's important to remember we all need love...we all deserve love, whoever we are." (My mind flashes guiltily to Severus Snape, and I wonder what kind of love he could ever find...) "Sometimes, all that matters is having somebody to depend on. It doesn't always have to be..._that_ kind of love"

Her words are so...right. Years later, I see her walking down the street holding hands with an angular girl with short, white hair. She sees me and says nothing – but her quiet, confident smile says it all. I often wonder how she was so young and so secretly wise. I envy her enormously because she always knew what she wanted and she never denied it. She wasn't scared.

* * *

I never expect it you know, Pads. You creep up on me at the most obscure moments.

I boil the kettle and you coil around me like a cat's tail.

I hang out a wet jumper on a hot radiator and suddenly hear your breath on the condensed glass of the window.

I sweep the floor and see your long, bare feet stroll past me.

_Why won't you let me forget you?_

* * *

When I'm feeling particularly selfish, I imagine what life would have been like if we were both muggles. We would have had an apartment with a television and on Friday nights we would have ordered Chinese food and eaten it on the sofa together. We would have argued about bills and what colour we should paint the spare room. We would have read about the latest government fiasco and tutted and then carried on with our day. We would have gone to the shops to buy groceries and of course we would have forgotten something. We would lay in bed, side by side, and answer to nobody.

We wouldn't have lived in fear. We wouldn't have found ourselves consumed with the terror...the terror that one day you'd come back to the apartment and one of us wouldn't be there. We wouldn't have built each other up only to tear it down all over again, over and over and over again. We wouldn't have destroyed each other, piece by piece.

But then I remember Harry's face, overjoyed, overwhelmed as he felt that at last, at long last, there was an opportunity to surround himself with something akin to family. Then I remember every student who ever made me laugh or made me proud. I remember every prank, every trick, every joke. I remember Teddy's soft peach palms. I remember every moment of my life that didn't destroy me and I know these desires are selfish and fleeting. There is some comfort, however small, in that.

**If I'm only dreaming,  
Won't someone tear the curtains down?  
Tear the curtains down…**

* * *

_The swirl of black hair...like a siren song..._

_Some musky, bewitching smell..._

_When I finally remember (and I always remember eventually, I swear to you I do)... I look back..._

_And you are gone.  
_

* * *

Stumbling back from the pub in the dark of the night, supporting each other because we're too bloody pissed to stand up. The snow is up to our knees and is still falling heavily around us. Our clothing glistens with a wet, speckled sheen under the frosty lamps as we pass by. You are singing again – you were _always _singing. It must have been freezing but somehow I couldn't feel the cold. We talk all the way home to keep the journey short but I barely remember anything we say... (_but sat in the kitchen, here and now, with Teddy happily slurping up his dinner, I remember your hand curling on my shoulder with painful clarity_.)

When we get in, you collapse in a heap of silent laughter around my shoulders and I slither hysterically down the wall. We race to the bathroom, pushing each other out of the way and laughing, because both of us are dying for a piss. You win, as usual. When you eventually make it to your (unmade) bed, you tell me that I'm a top mate and fall asleep with your trousers around your ankles. I slink off to my own room, with a bittersweet feeling that I can't yet understand. I don't let myself unfurl any further. This was close enough. This was enough.

* * *

I'm staring out at the sky. You are fixing your motorbike. You are smoking a cig out of the dormitory window. You are shouting at me. You are tired, overwhelmed. You are changed. You are leaping through the moonlight. You are helping me put a bandage on. You are singing in the bath tub. You are trotting down the street in the rain. You are slinking on the forest floor. You are laughing, you are running, you are sobbing, you're at the window, at the door, you're...

"You think about it a lot, don't you?"

I turn with a start. The book I was reading has slipped to the floor. She has been watching me, for how long? I don't know.

"Yes. Yes...I suppose I do."

"It's hard isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes it is."

I remind myself to lock it all away and not think about it for a good long while. I can't afford to let myself slip away, not yet, not just yet – not when people need me. The end is coming, undoubtedly, because I feel it everyday.

* * *

The bathtub in our first place is so small you can't fit your legs into it at full length. Instead, you choose to sprawl them over the edge. You leave the bathroom door open and I hear the water sloshing over the rim of that rusty old tub as you sing happily to yourself, pleased by the sound that bounces back from the tiles to greet you. Your black hair hangs in coiling tendrils over your shoulders. The floor is soaking and I get seriously annoyed at you. What a waste of our time it was, all that nagging and arguing. I wish the floor was wet more often. I wish the floor was soaking all the time.

* * *

The inky wash of the navy sky is starting to brighten. Only a few more hours before I have to face the day. I wonder what the morning will bring...I wonder how many people will die...

I wonder if it will be _me_ one of these days – or even worse, you. Hogwarts and summer and butterbeer seem unreal now.

The old floorboards on the landing creak and whine with the pressure of your feet. You are padding across them, not as stealthily as you think. I roll over and watch the bedroom door, too sleepy to imagine anything fantastical or unexpected. You hang around awkwardly, watching me from the hall.

"What's wrong?" The question like an arrow, deftly piercing the waking night.

You don't reply. You just look at me.

I sit up on my elbows.

"What's wrong? Are you alright?"

"I've been really bloody stupid you know" Cautiously, you approach the bed. I begin to panic.

"What are you..." You climb under the sheets with me and your skin is chill and fresh but your eyes are tired and weary... I try to wake up from this dream. I close my eyes and try and crawl back inside myself and remind myself of what I am. But (for once) it isn't a dream.

"I don't like being different...but I don't like hiding either." Your voice is very low and you move your piercing grey eyes away from me and towards the mattress. My eyes adjust to your face fairly quickly: the darkness of night is merely another part of me, just underneath the surface, waiting to emerge in the guise of the wolf. I remember the long, straight nose and the square jaw dusted with stubble. The thin brows and the slight dimple in the chin. You attempt to be open but the guardedness still marks your words. You want to spread the map of yourself out, let me read every bend and turn, let me measure it against myself, but you can't.

"Do you know what I'm trying to tell you?" you whisper. I nod in reply. Words have vanished. You reach out towards me...and I stop you. Your whole body registers shock; you clearly aren't used to rejection. It takes every ounce of thought, of courage and of resistance to even think. I swallow cautiously:

"I don't think...you should just...jump into this. I don't know what you're feeling; I don't want you to make a mistake..." _I don't want to be your mistake,_ I whisper inwardly. Your ears seem to prick up, more like the dog than the man, as though you hear what I say when I don't even say it.

"It's quite a big decision, you know? And I don't want you to just assume that I'm going to... it's a big change deciding to be..." I trail off. Deciding to be what? I suddenly worry that I _don't_ understand what you are saying, not at all. Deciding to be lonely and isolated like I am because I always have to bloody question myself, always have to make sure I'm not giving too much away? Deciding you want to be in a relationship with me? Or just have sex with me?...or worst of all, that you've been having these feelings...about men...but they aren't about me. Not at all.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think-

"Don't say it" you say quickly – _too_ quickly. The acid that tinges your words is barely concealed and it gives the game away entirely. The tension emerges once again. Your whole body is wound up tight, coiled like a spring as you search this unfamiliar realm of lust and hope and refusal.

"Alright" I whisper. And to show you it really is alright, I reach out gingerly and take your hand (even though it makes me terrified, even though I've thought about it a lot, even though it makes my heart race and I just don't want it to race like that because you are most certainly a risk I'm too frightened to take.) You stroke my knuckles and eventually fall to sleep.

* * *

I close my eyes.

_I'm holding you...I'm smelling your lovely neck. Yes, yes, Merlin please let this dream play out this way...let me have just five more minutes..._

_But it never does._

_The cruel shadows begin...you are falling. Falling away from me, now just the tips of your fingers remain...the swirl of the black hair...I rush forward...I try to capture them. Please don't leave me, don't leave me alone where I cannot follow you..._

_But I always turn around...why do I always turn around?  
_

I start from the bed with a scream that wakes the baby. She arches her back with a depressed groan and rolls over, slipping out to tend to him. She doesn't ask any questions and I provide no answers. Something dark twinges inside me, unclear to say whether it is the wolf or the man – but it tells me that certainly I am not long for this world.

* * *

"You believed it was me, didn't you?"

"Yes...I did...for a while there wasn't even a shadow of a doubt. And you believed..."

"Yes. Yes, I did."

I'm not too ashamed to admit that I sat there as a man in my thirties and wept and wept and wept. For the first time, it makes me feel human through and through...and it's awful.

"Cheer up Moony...don't be a miserable thing, eh? Don't make me have to do something daft like snog you!" I don't know how to respond to this. I feel like punching you. I feel like laughing hysterically. I feel like calling you a total bastard and taking you up on the offer and screaming because I don't know how you could leave and think things would go back to the way they were. How can you even begin to form the slightest resemblance of humour, of comfort, of familiarity? _How?_

You realise your mistake. Your put your thin arm around my shoulders, even though this must be the hardest thing in the world for you...I know it must be, because it is for me too. My heart flinches and whirs at the old name, at the much missed – much needed- contact. Even after everything, after twelve years – twelve _years_ – of the darkness, the screaming, the torture of the mind as it is wrung dry by utmost cruelty, the deception ,the desperation ,the penetration and the abuse of the _very _soul, the very heart of who you are...they never manage to get that last little part of you, that final piece. You keep it preserved, you hold onto it and then you bring it home...

And lay it down before me.

* * *

After you make the initial discovery about yourself, you try very hard to set things straight in your mind. Things are awkward but somehow steady. You throw yourself into your work with a vigour that I've never seen before – and even though it depresses you, even though you constantly worry (like we all do) you keep going. You make more of an effort with everyone; especially Harry, who loves to pull your long hair and occasionally runs a stout finger across your bottom lip with wide eyes. You attempt to settle your demons by bathing more quietly, by keeping the doors closed more often, by staying on top of the cleaning, by making your bed (even when all you think about is climbing back in straight away and hiding from the world outside the door.) I don't let on how upset I am when our conversation seems to turn from the silly, sprawling discussions of our past, to the civil but reserved small talk of the present; when you don't open up to me anymore, I start to panic you are changing too quickly, too differently for comfort. Guilt begins to gnaw at me each time I see your closed bedroom door, shutting something out...shutting me out?

But I need to protect myself too.

On a bright but cold day in September, I have a hard day. I come home, exhausted, aching, searching. Looking for anything...companionship...warmth...another body. I see your leather jacket, hung up for the first time in its entire existence, properly and neatly on the coat peg by the door.

It depresses me enormously.

* * *

"Did he ever tell you he loved you?"

_A cup of tea waiting on the bedside table for me after an endless, grim night. A blanket pulled over my shoulders on the sofa. A pile of assorted laundry and an attempt at what could almost be construed as 'neat' folding. _

_Two pairs of shoes, lined up side by side, on the mat by the door. _

"Yes..he did...in his own way."

* * *

"Hello" Lost in my own loneliness, your syllables startle me. I haven't seen you in days. It's been just over a month since that night. You offer a smile.

I turn over my shoulder, accepting it with more relief and gratitude then I probably show: "Hiya, you alright?"

"Yep...can't complain really."

"Good...that's good."

I can tell from the sounds of your body you are feeling restless, like me. A slow release of air escapes your lips as you hover around the kitchen with wavy steps, swinging your arms awkwardly and clapping your hands together. The noise, the life seems drained from you today. Eventually, you settle on resting on the work surface next to me.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like, genius?" I smirk but when you stiffen I feel the guilt instantly flowing back, "I mean...I'm just making some dinner. Do you want some?" These humble words, extended to you as a quiet apology, appease the gap between us slightly. Your back relaxes. Your tone brightens a little:

"Yeah! Yeah I'm really hungry actually, been busy with things – keep forgetting to eat!"

You rarely cook, and are famed for being a bit of a disaster in the kitchen even when you do use magic, so you follow every instruction I give you with the utmost care and precision. You dice the onions as though they are made of gold. I'm feeling so out of it and lost at the moment that I have to remind myself not to be jealous of a sodding onion. When you suggest we should open some wine (or anything remotely alcoholic) I leap at the chance.

When the sauce is finally on, I stand with my back to you, stirring and listening. The coils of steam from the pans kiss the windows, masking the dark of the night. The tiny kitchen is calm, homey, and gradually you fill it with idle chatter and little anecdotes, telling me all about your day and your work, coaxed on by the wine. You even tell me jokes and do impressions – I even laugh again. I smile down at the pan, the bubbling burgundy mixture popping slightly. _This is how things are meant to be, this is how it should be all the time. _

The food is good and the wine is good and we are cheerful, eating on our laps on the sofa. Almost normal, almost perfectly happy. Almost teenagers again. You even have bare feet.

"What's the deal with the leather jacket?" I say between noisy slurps of spaghetti.

"Why? What's up with it?"

"Well, why is it up on the peg all of a sudden? I was under the impression it lived on the floor or the sofa arm or the bottom of the bed you know..."

You shrug: "Thought that was what you wanted...everything in its place and all that." You look down but I see the way your cheek twitches and I know you are desperately forcing back a laugh and a grin behind the shelter of you hair. I hate that I've given you the satisfaction of knowing I missed you, just as you are, mess and all.

"Well...it turned out I was wrong. I am wrong sometimes...just sometimes"

Later, when I think you have dozed off on the sofa, I bring the dirty plates to the sink and can't help but grinning. The release is almost cathartic. Even the washing up seems a pleasure and I don't even want to use magic because I just want this contentment to last and last, to prolong it as long as is possible, and to revel in its subtle warmth.

When I hear your slight footsteps on the tiles behind me I hold my breath. I turn the squeaking taps on and your hesitation looms over me. I know you're wandering what to do next. You place one light hand on the bottom of my back, as sensitive as a paw, testing to see what reaction this will create. When I don't push you away, you shyly wrap your arms around my waist and place your chin gently on my shoulder.

"Is this okay?"

I nod.

"Thank you for dinner."

"You're welcome." Ever so smoothly, I feel you turn your head and just rest your cheek against my hair. You breathe in deeply and make a noise that resembles a purr, almost inaudible. A voice hidden inside me, one that I rarely let out, and one that I rarely take advice from, whispers those mystic words to my heart again: _This is how things are meant to be.  
_

**Like I tied a piece of string**

**Round my finger**

**And I hope this will remind me**

**Of the places I have been through  
**

* * *

Most of the time when we are together you can class it as 'making love'. The rest of the time...sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't. Sometimes it is more...sometimes less than love. But the first time is like this. Your skin is cold and sleek against mine. Your dark, slick kisses bruise me wonderfully. Your mouth says words, a symphony of illuminated words (wonderful, brilliant words) that I don't let myself remember anymore because they are too painful.

We are both searching for something but we haven't figured it out yet. We know women and softness and I guess we know men, but this is different. The pressure of your palms, your fingers digging into me and tracing every tear on my flesh – you take your turn to explore my maps, varied and strange as they may be and I can tell from the way you search me you've thought about this a lot. _I've waited a long time for you. Who says these words? Was it you or I? _I'm constantly surprised by the feelings your touch leaves behind, surprised by myself when I discover I can be pushy and forceful, demanding, pressing into you to show you what I want. It surprises you too and the growl you make as you look at me with a shocked glaze on your eyes is delicious. You treat my scarred collarbone like a haven and shower it with zealous kisses. That sweet mixture of pain, of pleasure, of regret and of acceptance as you move inside of me for the very first time. The sound I make as I try and relax, but it's just impossible, it's just too much. It hurts a lot...but it reminds me that I'm real. It reminds me that you are here, above me, looking wonderful. You make a fleeting attempt to be gentle and soft that is destroyed by the sheer desperation of the moment – but you make up for it, after this initial rush. You slow down, you kiss more carefully, you take the time to breathe. This is harder, more overwhelmingly real for you than you let on, I think. And you aren't selfish or self-involved or vain at all – you give everything away for free, you don't hide anything from me and you barely ask for anything in return.

Your cry in the barren dark as you reach your climax echoes in my mind long after you are gone.

**It seems so long ago****,**

**I would see your writing**

**On a postcard or a note**

**And your stories would excite me  
****  
**

* * *

"Come back to bed!" I say, more boldly than I could have ever expected, on a rainy Sunday afternoon weeks after that first night... the first time. You hobble back in with toast and tea and a smile, leaving a smattering of crumbs and tacky jam on the bed linen. I don't get angry at you, not anymore. (_Not until later, when I'm a fool, and I think you've destroyed my whole world, anyway. But I try not to think about that now, try not to sully this precious memory of you._) You climb in beside me and wrap an arm around me. You run a hand through my hair. We both listen to the pattering of the rain on the glass and try and think about this moment and this moment only.

* * *

_The massing grey. _

_I'm so close to capturing your hand...please don't go...not now..._

_But I always turn around...why do I always turn around?  
_

* * *

Heaped like dim rubies, Picota cherries we buy from the market sit waiting for us in a grey-blue bowl. It's the kind of aesthetic beauty that makes me quietly pleased and grateful. We rinsed them earlier under the tap and now they gleam darkly, preciously. We try and guess the sweet from the sour and laugh at each others facial expressions when we taste them. You charm the stones away, instead of taking them out in your mouth, and they build up next to you like a tiny pile of boulders.

"Stop using magic, you're taking all the fun out of it. You're meant to do it like this."

I pick up an individual cherry by the stem and slowly take a bite. The flesh separates with ease from the tiny, hard stone and I feel the ripe juice spill down my lip at once. I roll my tongue over the glossy surface of that sweet fruit and let the rest of the pliant flesh fall away with a delightful give, like a game of easy seduction. Your eyes are fixed on me. When I'm done, I spit the stone out cockily and pick the stem out with the tips of my fingers.

"See?"

"You're right" you murmur, "You're way is really magic..."

You lift another fruit to my lips.

"Show me again?"

I show you about ten more times before everything finally dissolves.

* * *

The final time we sleep together, it's more like this: Our skin is hardened and rough. Our hair is flecked with grey. Our bodies are fading. Our hearts are straining. Our eyes, our _minds_ are almost out – the light inside is struggling bitterly to survive but it holds on, it holds on for one more chance to claim its humanity, for one more chance to experience unbridled happiness or joy or anything even remotely like it . We try to give it a chance but the flame is hard to restore after so many years and after so much despair. It's a fight, a struggle to gain control...or forgiveness. It's a release. Is there love within it? In my eyes, there is nothing but love there – love in all its forms. Misplaced, deformed, angered but love, love nonetheless. Somewhere inside, we're both praying to someone, somewhere, that we'll have a happy ending. We have to pray. We have to.

* * *

I never feel the pain as it hits me. The void opens. There is emptiness. There is nothing. For a few moments there is no feeling, good or bad, as I drift in a space that feels familiar and unwelcome all at the same time. Is this peace? Is this the end? I think of nothing, pure, simple, blissful... nothing. _Thank you._

And then it changes. The emptiness fills slowly with a delirious hum, like bees on lavender. Whispers of smiles and happiness reach out to me. All those I've loved and love, living or gone, seem to touch me somehow, overwhelming me with an internal glow that I can't fathom out. All will be well. All will be well. I see her smile drift past me. I reach out with some unknown energy to see if she will stay but she continues on her own path, the back of her head fading away from me. We were not meant for this world now, not anymore.

The sky is amber or rose pink...or it is like stained glass or Turkish delight. Or something...vague. Delightful. Scented. I am floating. I am _free._ There are no moons and shadows here, there are no prisons, self-inflicted or otherwise. The sounds around me make sense for once. They are my favourite sounds in the whole world...your singing in my ear...your low rumbling snore late at night...the water sloshing over the side of the bath. _Please let this be real, for once, let me get what I want._

And at last, at last you appear. _I've waited for you a long time._ Your face drifts between the young and the old but your smile, your wonderful, tangible _smile_, permeates everything. Like a shadow you climb from body to body, you pass through me and all over me, inside me. You dance around me, like the barest whisper, like the softest petal, like the finest silk and your feet never touch the ground. You are Padfoot and Sirius and even myself all at once. Your limbs and your hair, your laughter and your voice weave a pattern of life and love all around me and my soul is filled with you. I edge gently outside of myself for the final time.

_The tips of your fingers lingering through the mist. A swirl of black hair...I reach out and..._

I grab your hand. I never look back.

**Wherever you step along the way,  
I hope that the wind will blow you,  
Right back into my life,  
At the end of the road.  
Still, every now and then I hear a voice  
Singing to me softly,  
Deep inside my head  
And it sings till I fall asleep  
If I'm only dreaming  
Won't someone tear the curtains down?  
Tear the curtains down…**


End file.
